


There is but One Paris

by babybel



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love, in the sense that they both r in love but will never Do anything, like a little deleted scene from the timeline cold open :'), one of the interludes through time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybel/pseuds/babybel
Summary: Left Bank of Paris, 1928; an angel and a demon meet for a drink. It doesn't go to plan.





	There is but One Paris

**Author's Note:**

> started writing it, had a breakdown, bon appetit  
> title from a v van gogh quote

“You’re late.” 

“I am not,” Aziraphale argued, taking a seat across from Crowley. “You said nine, and it’s-”

“Nine thirty, isn’t it?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, is it?” Aziraphale’s smile dropped, eyes racing around the room to find a clock. “Goodness, I’m- I’m so sorry, I didn’t… I got caught up.” 

“Caught up?” Crowley snorted. “I don’t care, I got here five minutes ago anyway.” A lie, of course. Naturally; innately. He was a demon, after all. He should lie. 

“Right.” Aziraphale still looked guilty. “Good.” 

There was a bit of silence, which Crowley wasn’t fond of, so he said, “So what’s news?”

“What’s news…” Aziraphale mused. “What’s news is this place,” he finished, looking around at it. “It’s beautiful, how did you find it?”

It was beautiful indeed. One of the smaller artist’s lounge type places in the Left Bank of Paris, it was quiet but not dead. There were hushed conversations between other patrons at other tables, and there was also an impressive selection of liquors. 

Crowley shrugged. “Word of mouth, I suppose. People talk.” 

“People talk,” Aziraphale affirmed. “Well, it’s lovely. Of everything we’ve seen… the artistry of now is something. Everyone’s- writing and reading and painting and acting. It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” 

Crowley agreed wholeheartedly. There was something about the amount of creation centered in such a vibrant and cynical community that called to him particularly. He felt very much included in something, very much part of a movement, which was nice. More than nice, really. He didn’t like thinking about it, but he was thriving. He didn’t say any of it, though. He said, dryly, “Good to know you’re still impressed by anything.”

“Why, are you looking to impress me?” 

Crowley dropped the fork he’d been playing with, and it clattered against the table. There was a second’s lull in the room’s conversations as everyone turned towards the noise for a moment before going back to their own business. He stared at Aziraphale and couldn’t think of something to say. Well, he could think of a lot of things to say but none of them were right. He could have been angry. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and then again. Finally, he asked, “What are we drinking?”

“Tokaji. Nineteen hundred. Eighteen ninety-nine.” Crowley forced himself to stop gritting his teeth. “Yeah, eighteen ninety-nine.” 

“Lovely.” Aziraphale held his glass up and peered through it. After another period of silence, he said, “Who do you think is going to get them all?”

“Hm?”

“All the- all the artists and poets and…” 

“Fitzgerald’s ours. Pound, ours. Hemingway, definitely ours.” Crowley pictured them. Some of them he’d only heard tell of, but some of them he’d met. Lots of late nights in places like this one would make those connections. “Joyce…” 

“You can have Joyce.” Aziraphale shook his head. “I can’t stand Joyce.” 

“Really?” Crowley pretended to be surprised. “Not much for Joyce, me, so I figured your lot would be all over him.” 

Aziraphale was watching him over the tops of their wine glasses. “Perhaps my lot is all over him.” 

Crowley realized that it was one of those moments where he felt like Aziraphale was trying to tell him something without saying it, and he couldn’t fathom what the secret message was. “Blows for you, then.”  

“Eliot,” Aziraphale said with conviction, “will be one of ours.” 

“Is that so?” Ideally, he’d have said it conspiratorially, or humorously, or something like that. He didn’t; it just came out flatly and even he heard it as, ‘couldn’t care less about the reasoning behind it, just don’t stop talking’. 

“I’d put money on it.” Aziraphale leaned his head on one hand and with the other started lackadaisically folding and unfolding his napkin. 

They were reaching the point in conversation they always reached in public, where it felt later than it was and like they’d drank more than they had and even though neither of them really needed sleep they both felt like they did. They stared at their glasses and plates and at the tablecloth and around at the room, and didn’t discuss anything. 

At last, Crowley said, “Hey, angel.” 

Aziraphale looked up at him. 

“Where are you tonight?” he asked, heart in his throat, waiting for and dreading some innocent little quip about how it already was tonight, and what a silly question, and so on and so forth. 

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked, then pointedly looked anywhere but at Crowley, shaking his head slightly. “Certainly not in Paris, dear.” 

Crowley made himself take a breath. “Right. Course.” 

“Well- I have to-”

“I know, you’re-”

“Busy, I’m very busy, I’m-”

“Yeah. Yeah.” 

“Glad we-”

“Yep.” 

“Yep,” Aziraphale echoed. He made an attempt to straighten the silly bowtie he wore. 

“I’m not in Paris either,” Crowley added. Another lie. He was knocking it out of the park in that department tonight. “I’ve got to pop out when we’re done here.” 

A worried look crossed Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, are you in a hurry? I don’t want to keep you if-” 

“No, not at all.” Crowley winced. “I mean, relatively, but not in the sense that we’ve got to wrap up any time soon. I’m… I’m free for now.” 

“And now ends when?” Aziraphale asked. He had a way of asking things that was just painfully genuine. 

“Whenever you want,” Crowley said slowly, and finished with a shrug. 

After a moment, Aziraphale whispered, “I told you I have to go.” He sounded utterly distressed. 

“But- you said-”

“I said I had to go!” Upset. He was upset. 

“But another minute,” Crowley tried, and realized he was absolutely desperate. “Can’t you stay another minute? I don’t see the harm in-” 

“No,” Aziraphale snapped. “Save this for humans, don’t- please don’t do this to me.” He fumbled with his napkin agitatedly, and stood up. 

“You’re crazy, angel,” Crowley spat, glaring up at him, panicking. “Don’t do what?”

“Oh, you know.” Aziraphale sighed sharply. Then he brought a hand up and rubbed his temples.  “Crowley, I’m busy, I have to fly. I… I’ll miss you ‘til next time.” 

Crowley called, “Wait,” and Aziraphale didn’t, and Crowley was sitting at the little table alone. He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a breath through gritted teeth. 

He finished the wine in his glass and then flicked it, the gentle crystal tone seemingly contained where only he could hear it. 

“‘Til next time,” he muttered. He put his glasses back on, tapped the table to conjure some money, and strode out of the lounge. 

**Author's Note:**

> and then the church scene in the forties is them making good :')


End file.
